November 26, 2018

This article was printed in the Lake County Chronicle on Friday, November 23.

Thanksgiving weekend is a time to give thanks—and we in Lake County have much to be thankful for. All week national headlines remind us that the most lethal wildfires in California history have left people with no home and no choice but to move out of state. This isn’t new; the first time such a situation caught the nation’s attention was in 2005 when around 400,000 people were displaced after Hurricane Katrina. So, our first gratitude is that we are neither under water nor on fire.

Disasters bring out the best and worst of human nature. On the one hand, stories of heroism abound. In California, I read about a nurse in a hospital who found herself (with other staff and patients) stuck in traffic while trying to escape. The smoke made it impossible to breathe without a mask. Surrounded by fire on all sides, they pulled over in their ambulances and took refuge in a nearby garage. There they set up shop, laid the patients on the garage floor, and prepared to meet their Maker. Still alive a few hours later, they returned to the abandoned, still-standing hospital. Patients were wheeled back in on stretchers and returned to their beds, where they collectively waited to either perish or be rescued. Even patients who had left their oxygen tanks survived. The group is now feels an indescribable, lifelong bond.

Other human trends are disheartening. In the past I have coined climate change “the great equalizer,” believing everyone essentially unable to escape its effects. I need to revise that stance as people with great resources shield themselves and their property from climate change’s chaos with carbon-intensive measures. In California and elsewhere, large homeowners now hire private firefighting companies to protect their homes. Less glaring but no less true is the fact that those in California with homeowner’s insurance, or multiple homes, or investments, can stay. Similarly, along the coastlines, those who can afford the heavily subsidized flood insurance rates can also rebuild after hurricanes. Those without are the climate refugees.

It’s hard to criticize the impulse to protect one’s own when feeling in danger. Perhaps this is why climate change has fallen on such deaf ears—they are not exactly deaf, but solutions that take the whole into account run counter to this instinct to protect one’s own.

We are not in disaster mode here in Lake County. What can we do to answer our higher instincts, to act like the nurse who refused to leave her patients? One way to express one’s gratitude for the obvious—that we live in beautiful place that is as-yet relatively untouched by short-term disaster—is to increase our use of renewable energies. The less carbon we use, the more we are thinking of the whole. Climate refugees, and people in survival mode, do not have time or energy to work on this. If you are interested in joining me in working to expand renewable energy options in Lake County, please contact me by email at katyag@frontiernet.net. Thank you and have a peaceful Thanksgiving holiday.

October 25, 2018

This fall has been one of those times when the Gordon family—Mark, Katya, Cedar, and Lamar--were catapulted out of everyday living and into the world of finer things—the transition into the next life and all the deep emotions and family ties that arise around this remarkable time.

To make a long story short, Mark’s father, Keith Gordon, was diagnosed with a rare skin cancer over a year ago. He was 89. They tried various treatments but by April of this year, all agreed that it was time to stop with treatments and be present while Keith lived out his days as fully as possible. We expected to see our sailing season interrupted, as Keith’s cancer was already very developed and nearing his brain—but wouldn’t you know it, he lived almost normally for the next six months: washing dishes, watching Westerns, and getting his coffee at the local coffee shop. It wasn’t until the 2nd week in October, as Mark was driving home from his last seasonal commitment (teaching Celestial Navigation at the North House Folk School) that he received the long-dreaded call.

By the next morning Mark was in Red Wing, and within another 36 hours all seven of Keith and Colleen’s children (6 sons and 1 daughter) were on hand. In their usual short order these industrious siblings—Dick, Steve, Bob, Tom, Mark, Bill, and Anne—set up the hospice bed and equipment in the living room they’ all grown up in. Keith arrived home from the hospital a few hours later. Even now, he proved a determined and healthy survivor, and lasted two nights beyond what seemed possible. Surrounded by a family like that, who would want to say good-bye? On Thursday, October 11, surrounded by his beloved wife, children, grandchildren, and one great-grandchild, he breathed his last.

And so an era ended—and another began. With seemingly instinctive knowledge about when to cry, when to laugh, and when to get to work, the family took some time together, and then rallied to do all that needed to be done. Within three hours all signs were gone from the living room as everyone preferred the decades-old memories of Keith sitting in his armchair front and center.

Meanwhile, at home in Two Harbors, we had been living through a howling northeast gale. Early on my dad (Dan Goodenough), our friend Doug, and our deckhand Lanny, and I moved Amicus II to a safer berth in the Knife River marina. Lucky we did, as our regular lagoon flooded once again. Meanwhile, the girls completed a full week of school and tests as well as a cross country meet that included Cedar’s first DNF (“did not finish”) due to a fall, and injury.

So when Mark came home for a day after his father’s death, we decompressed together. Mark sat earnestly at the computer, wanting to write a eulogy that would do his father justice. My dad and I tuned up our guitars to sing and play for the family service planned in just three days. Sunday morning we drove back to Red Wing, and by afternoon the Funeral Home was open for visiting friends and loved ones. Already the Gordon home was packed with all of us extended family members--hugging, changing clothes, and snacking on the piles of food that were appearing on the doorstep every few hours.

The service was for the family only, which in this case meant close to 50 people. No casket, no crowds—just music, prayers, Communion, and the Eulogy—which is a nice name for family time. If there’s one thing the Gordon family enjoys, it’s telling stories. I can’t reproduce them here but through them we were reminded of Keith’s quiet but solid parenting. We all knew he loved to fly planes. The fact that he stopped flying just after Mark (child no. 3) was born, was to Mark a testament to how committed he was to his growing family, way back in 1959. Several people commented on his ability to walk away and not look back once one phase of his life ended. Later, he both bawled out and bailed out his teenage sons more than once but never failed to be there for them, which ultimately resulted in them turning into the amazing spouses and parents and workers that they are today. To me, the service felt exactly right and was a unique blend of family love and emotion, Christian and Catholic tradition, and a touch of Swedenborgian spice tossed in.

The burial took place down in Chatfield where Keith grew up. Solemnly we strolled amidst the Gordon clan gravesites, back to the 1860s. All seven siblings took part in filling up the grave, burying the beautiful urn that was made by a family friend. About 30 of us were present, in black clothes and exhibiting a mixture of smiles and tears. I was all smiles. It’s hard to predict how one will feel at any given moment and my brother’s death forever convinced me that when someone passes to the next life, feelings are highly variable and unpredictable, though all are good and need to be felt! I know for me the brisk wind, blue sky, white clouds, green grass, and trees in full fall color helped me feel extremely happy for Keith, imagining him waking up to youthful energy, no pain, and a clear head!

Afterwards—back to home base, now owned solely by Colleen and inhabited by the Gordon family since 1964. It was late, and we were tired, but that didn’t matter after more pork chops and coleslaw was consumed and washed down with red wine. We spent a long and uproarious evening together. Conversations flowed freely and loudly. So many sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, spouses, fiances, to catch up on! So many budding careers, life events, moves, and weddings! What a lot of absolutely solid people in the Gordon clan. Even the good-byes were cheerful, since we will all be congregating in three weeks for Luke and Kat’s wedding in Iowa; with his good-bye hugs Luke told us all to “bring our dancing pants.”

No one can protect Colleen from that first morning in 63 years when she wakes up alone in the house, but I think she’s going to be fine. Everything in her life indicates that she can handle this. She is an amazing matriarch, universally revered and adored. “It’s impossible to get depressed when you are counting your blessings,” she tells me when I ask how she is doing.

And here I am back at home, profoundly changed and, of course, needing to write about it! I am in awe. It’s hard enough to bring up two girls. How about 7 children, 6 of them boys? Wow. What was their trick? The Gordon family can be viewed as the anti-dote to whatever is not working with boys today. They were outside, they were rough and tumble, they were allowed to make mistakes without receiving crushing or shaming long-term consequences. They were tight on budgets and strong on commitment, humility, and just the simple fact of doing the right thing, day in and day out. And look how it has served them and all of us who are lucky enough to be recipients of their progeny. I know I stand with 4 sisters-in-law and 1 brother-in-law in my gratitude of being part of such a large, sprawling, happy family, and I can’t help but note that of Keith and Colleen’s 16 grandchildren, every single one of them found their way to Red Wing for their Grandpa’s passing except the two who are in the military and couldn’t get leave—and they sent notes to be read at the service, telling how proud they were to be called Keith’s grandsons.

How did all this come from such a quiet, unassuming couple? Well, we can all ask Colleen their secret. Until we know it, I will just observe that in the final year of his life, Keith really didn’t like to talk about his cancer. Why spend all this time and energy on something as dull as a tumor? One of my favorite moments occurred at the Mayo Clinic last spring, when we were moving into palliative care. With seven of us in the patient room with Keith and Colleen, the doctor expressed her warmth and appreciation the minute she saw us. “You must be quite a man,” she said to Keith. After an hour of discussion, still she didn’t leave. I realized with surprise that she wasn’t going to leave until we indicated that we were done! No seven minute appointment for her.

There was a pause, and then Keith leaned in. “Do you live in Rochester?” he asked politely. We all wondered where he was going with this one. When she answered in the affirmative, he asked her if she would be interested in speaking at his Kiwanis Club in Red Wing sometime that month! Nothing would surprise me at this point, so it was no shocker when she mused about her days off and they made some tentative plans to schedule something in the future. Never one to dwell on his own situation, Keith was recruiting to the end.

Just before takeoff 2006

Somehow, when someone’s earthly life ends, it also crystallizes and takes on significance and meaning. We couldn’t necessarily express it, but it was so clear to us what Keith stands for. It’s something deeply humble, and devoted, and consistent, and reliable. It draws no attention but ultimately creates loving, committed, and lifelong relationships. As Monica Gordon (Bob’s wife) put it, really the only thing to die was the cancer.

October 18, 2018

The 2018 season officially ended on Oct 17, as Amicus II gets hauled out of the water. It is a bittersweet ending, always, though the northeast gale-turned-storm last week gave us the clear signal that the time was coming. With flooding that surpassed even the Oct. 28 storm of 2017 which uprooted our dock and caused some major, though superficial, damage to our hull, we were grateful to come away unscathed. (This time we were prepared, and moved Amicus II to one of the most protected berths in the marina which had, thankfully, been vacated for the season.)

We end the season with a strong sense of contentment. About 300 people have been on day sails with us this year, and 32 people have sailed with us on multi-day trips lasting from 4 to 30 days long. That's a lot of living on Amicus II! Lots of waves under the keel, conversations in the cockpit, Titanic poses at the bowsprit, meals shared, donned windbreakers, spray in the face, and hauling up the mainsail. We are concerned about our civilization's growing distance from earth and water; we like to think that getting people out on Lake Superior is a tiny part of the solution.

We could never do it without lots of support. Thanks goes out to all local businesses and general supporters, from Gateway Lodge to the Two Harbors Chamber of Commerce, for helping us get people out there. And finally--to Lanny, our faithful first mate, present on virtually every day sail this summer. Lanny is a steady, supportive presence in our lives, both on and off the water. He has steered us in and out of Knife River thousands of times, always with an ear to Mark's musing about the weather, always with a friendly comment to the nearest participant. When we began Amicus Adventure Sailing we had no concept of the relationships that would develop as a result, and our friendship with Lanny is one great example. Thank you Lanny!

September 26, 2018

The final leg of the fall sailing trips is a 14-16 hr. cruise back to our home home port in Knife River. This is usually an overnight passage with selected crew. On this one Mark enlisted our day sail deckhand Lanny, just-finished-a-trip-but-hadn't-had-enough Brad, and 1st mate John. They motored out of Grand Marais in mellow seas and light NE winds. John made hearty mac-and-cheese-with-ground-beef, a perennial favorite before long journeys. They ate in the cockpit, the sun sinking beside them.

It was all very quiet until 9:00 p.m. when, as forecasted, the NE winds came in with a vengeance, blowing 15-20 with gusts to 30 knots. Waves quickly built to 3-5 then 5-7+ foot seas. With wind and waves directly behind them, Amicus II behaved predictably and magnificently, romping down the north shore in record time, prompting the crew to repeatedly marvel about what a great boat the Amicus II is--sentiments with which I heartily concurred from my bed in Two Harbors as I heard the wind roar in the trees.

Lanny, who has waited for this all summer, spent most of the night faithfully jammed behind the wheel. All sails were quickly reefed down as far as they would go, and the main was dropped. On a scrap of jib, they averaged over 7 knots most of the night. The motion was "impressive," 30 degree rolls every few seconds in steep waves. Miraculously, no one got seasick. Some sleeping or at least resting was attempted, with lee cloths holding people to their berths--though the noises that accompany heavy seas (continual and repeated splashing waves, clanking cans, and shifting pots), precluded any real rest. By 2 a.m. the gusts had eased, along with the waves. Living on board felt a little more manageable. Coming in before dawn was now a distinct possibility, so they reefed the jib down still further and tried to slow down for the final few hours.

After a close encounter with a freighter coming out of Two harbors (the freighter beamed a light on Amicus II after Mark chatted briefly with the captain on the radio), the winds picked up again for the final hour. They arrived at Knife River at daybreak. After tying up, they promptly fixed a hearty breakfast of beans, bacon, and eggs. I (Katya) joined them at this point and got an earful.

If this kind of story excites you no end, join our "heavy weather sailing" email list! A couple of times every fall, when winds are predicted to be between 15-30 knots, we schedule a day for heavy weather sailing. Mark covers topics from sail choice to reefing, tacking, heeving to, and other heavy weather techniques. More detail here.

And thus ends our multi-day trips for the season. Special thanks to John Wytanis, our faithful 1st mate when I (Katya) am not on board. John has now sailed close to 2000 miles with Mark, and has proven himself to be invaluable in every way. We love his easy social manner, his enthusiasm for learning to sail, and his long list of skill-sets including his ability to crank out meals for the crew in short order and under extreme conditions at sea. What would we do without him?

September 19, 2018

On the evening of September 5, within hours of arrival, participants were hustled out of the marina for a 23-hour overnight sail to Loon Harbor, deep in the Canadian wilderness. Mark saw the weather window and took it, grateful that participants were prepared for immediate adventure. They sailed, motored, and viewed intense starry skies, and arrived at Loon Harbor in the late afternoon. After a rest day spent exploring ancient "Pukaskwa pits," they headed out into easterly winds, going to Otter Cove with hopes of reaching further north.

However, the weather gods had different ideas. Hurricane Florence would impact weather for the next week, stalling any typical winds from northeast coming in. The long-term forecast predicted S/SE/SW winds for the next 7 days. This cut off any possibility of going further north and being able to get back! The goal became figuring out how to get back in a SW direction. The next day looked like the best opportunity to head down towards the Sleeping Giant. After a 7-hour motor slog in heavy seas they were able to sail the last 10 miles, coming to rest at a snug cove named Sawyer Bay. They were back to the world of trails, relative civilization.

The next day--more sunny skies, more brisk S/SE winds. They climbed the "chest" of the Seeping Giant, with a view of Amicus II 1200 feet below.

The next day they were able to make it to Thompson Island, a local favorite, where they tied to the first dock of the trip, and had the whole island to themselves for a night. The next morning they bushwacked across the island, unsuccessfully,, to find more Pukaskwa pits (Mark's memory of this from 15 years ago was less than detailed--the pits were never found.). In the afternoon, friendly cruisers from Thunder Bay took them on a motor tour of a silver mine, including an entrance accessible only by nudging the bow to a cliff edge and hopping off and on!

The next day, with unusual calms, they motored/drifted under Thunder Cape for a most picturesque charting class in the cockpit. When the wind came up with a vengeance (out of the south, of course), they tacked 16 times to make good the 10 miles to the next anchorage (see photo for chart plotter record of this--no exaggerations!) at Little Trout Bay--another majestic Canadian fjord-like anchorage, which they climbed later that afternoon.

The next day, as it turned out, would be their last. Presented with several options, and given wind and storm predictions, the decision was made to go all the way to Grand Marais and spend the final night in the safety of the North House dock, where they weathered strong winds and continuous lightning/thunderstorms.

The whole thing lasted 11 days and although it was not the trip Mark planned, the pictures show that there was no real way to go wrong in such a place. Thanks to Jeff, Susan, Brad, and Mike for joining us, and thanks to Jeff for the fantastic photography! See our facebook page for a full photo album--it's worth taking a few minutes to explore!

September 04, 2018

Bright and early on August 28, Captain Mark, 1st Mate John, and 4 crew participants began their 5-day journey together. Looking at the forecast, they decided to take advantage of the good weather to go all the way to the Apostles in one day. With following seas they went all the way to York Island. The southwesterlies provided a great introduction to moderate seas to test the seasickness factor (they all passed with flying colors--adjusting with naps and snacks). They were rewarded with a beautiful sunset, a lovely walk on the beach, and an incredible starry night with a waning moon.

The anchorage at York Island was quite rolly which helped everyone adjust to motion--for the rest of the trip no one seemed the slightest bit woozy. The next day, before weather deteriorated, they took advantage of the calm to motor to Raspberry Island, bushwack up to the trail, and visit the famed lighthouse. In the afternoon they sailed towards Sand Island to visit the sea caves, had a floating lunch, and then sailed northwest to the Silver Bay marina to prepare for the unstable weather predicted for the next two days. It was a glorious afternoon/evening sail in a light northeast breeze.

The next day began with rain and fog, with enough of a break to take a few hours of sail training--tacking, points of sail. Otherwise they drank coffee, learned charting and navigation, and worked out sunsights (celestial navigation).

The next started out with a brisk downwind sail up the north shore. Given the forecast of deteriorating winds and weather, they once again decided to push on to Grand Marais that evening. Another floating dinner in becalmed seas...then the reward of several miles of nighttime sailing. The headwinds came in a little early, so they motored the final hour under another spectacular night sky, and spent the final night cozied up in Grand Marais harbor at the North House dock. Waking to strong northeast winds and fog, they were glad they'd come in the night before!

Thanks to Brooke for sending us pictures. By all accounts it was a fantastic crew--up for anything, enjoyed everything, and easily rolled with the changes in weather. We hope you decide to come sail with us again sometime.

July 09, 2018

With Sea Change once again behind us, Mark and I are starting to understand the niche that we are carving out for ourselves in the different worlds we live in: the outdoor adventure world, the world of climate activists, and the 21st century adolescent culture.

First, a story: near the end of the trip, the posse headed out in dinghy and kayaks to explore the shoreline near Grand Portage. It was evening, and the only stipulation was that they needed to be back before dark--and not even to cut it close. They headed out gleefully, bathing suits aboard. An hour or so later, I saw two kayaks gliding back towards us. Usually we hear them before we see them--riotous laughter and shouting--so their silence was unusual. Reed, in the blue kayak, pulled alongside the boat. "Katya?" His voice was serious and I knew immediately that something had happened. "Could you help me get into the boat? I kind of fell and a rock fell on my leg and it hurts pretty bad. And there's some blood."

I peered down. Not much was discernible from my vantage point. Reed's voice was a little shakey but otherwise he seemed okay. He threw me his rope, handed up the paddle, and hoisted himself onto the ladder. He definitely did not bear any weight on the one leg but did hobble into the cockpit. The others followed, sober and eager to tell the story, which was that Reed and Cedar were scaling a rock wall just above the water, mostly for fun and to keep their feet dry, and a big rock had come loose in Reed's grip. He and the rock fell down into the knee-deep water just below, the rock glancing his leg. It hurt, and he yelled.

The posse rallied; in seconds Leif had him out of the water, Robin brought him the kayak, and he kayaked back to us while the rest retrieved dinghy and kayak to follow. Altogether, they'd done a beautiful job. "It's a good thing we're on a sailboat!" Reed managed to joke right away as he peered dubiously at his leg, which was definitely discolored but did not seem misshapen.

Mark and I both have Wilderness First Responder experience but he, with 25 years of EMT certification, has always been the doctor aboard. With characteristic care and calm, Mark took a look, felt around, asked questions. I gave Reed Arnica. Mark dressed the wounds and administered some Ibuprofen. Leif brought dry clothes. Down in the cabin, we elevated his leg and played cards. Reed improved by the minute as he devoured several bowls of leftover spaghetti. Dinner was a long time ago, and he'd been through a lot. I gave him more Arnica before going to bed, and he made it back up the hatch steps okay. He insisted he could sleep outside, as planned.

The next morning we checked in. "Much better," was Reed's assessment, clearly relieved. Just a big ole bruise. He hobbled all morning and barely winced by afternoon. Another Arnica miracle--but happily, bones were not broken.

Here is an observation from our trip: We operate on high expectations and high trust--both with parents and teens/young adults. We offer something different, and the kids understand this. We trust our own, tried-and-true-from-decades-of-experience instincts when it comes to what is safe and what is not. We lay out far fewer rules than any camp I know, but those we have are iron-clad. In general, we trust them to use their heads. We trust that they are strong and agile and smart. In return, they trust our judgment and follow our lead.

Similarly with their parents--we trust them to understand this. We ask for no waivers and go places where no non-emergency communication is possible. Parents trust us, and they want the same things for their kids that we do, and they enthusiastically embrace this approach. We're all on the same page, and I don't know if it could work any other way. It is not the normal way in today's world, and there are plenty of people who tell us we must change/grow/regulate/cover our butts in order to survive.

But having done this for years now, I'm becoming convinced of the opposite--that only when we replace some of these rules and regulations with relationships and risk will we survive the traps we've set for ourselves in our current world--a world where we use more fossil fuels to protect ourselves from fossil fuel over-use. A world where the scarier the natural world looks, the more we hide inside. We could easily have outlawed scaling rocks, boulder hopping, or being out of sight. What would we have lost? A heck of a lot of fun, independence, exploring the natural world, and an opportunity to take charge during an accident.

We know Reed's parents, and we know that they would not have blamed (or sued) us had Reed's leg been broken. The trust goes both ways. When we trust each other, we take risks. Or is that we take risks, and thence come to trust each other? Which comes first?

July 01, 2018

Every group is unique, and I've given up anticipating exactly what one group is going to go ape over. This group was comprised of all good eaters--no surprise there--and heartily embraced either oatmeal or rice/lentils for breakfast with their own unique combination on top. Could be syrup, coconut chips, raisins, pb--or sauerkraut, soy sauce, eggs. They went through pb quickly--again, no surprise there--and a loaf of fresh bread didn't last long. I knew to make three loaves at a time. Popcorn got us through late afternoon.

The biggest surprise was the raisin intake. Fast energy, sweet (and we didn't have much to satisfy the sweet tooth), easy, and plentiful. With a 25 lb. box divided into bags for the entire two months, barely one of the four bags eaten thus far, they realized that they could eat raisins with impunity. Which they did. If the digestive tract was upset by the volume of raisins, they probably discussed it among themselves but I never heard about it. I told them they could eat as many raisins as they wanted until further notice but they needed to fill the raisin jar every time it was emptied. It emptied at least once a day, and they faithfully refilled it. Not sure what we would have done without the raisins.

June 30, 2018

It's hard to believe that we actually sailed around Isle Royale when you know everything else we did--hike many miles on trails, bushwack along bedrock shorelines for hours, research and count hundreds of arctic disjunc t plants, cook and clean up meals, write daily (sometimes hourly) in journals, catch up on reading, play a few dozen rounds of cards or trivia or scattergories. One night they found the game where you put the plastic piece in your mouth and then try to say things....that night we had to hush them sternly at 11:30, and after that we all agreed that 10:30 would be lights-out, and no more reminders.

I call it the Posse Story because virtually everything was done together. Leif was the main orchestrator of inclusivity, and even managed to tease Lamar out of her shyness. Whatever they did, they did together. I felt guilty dragging one of them into the galley to cook, and they didn't pretend to like dishes, but there were certainly no complaints.

Being on watch presented a unique challenge, as they couldn't ALWAYS all be in the cockpit with the helmsperson! So they would retreat to the cabin, or occasionally the bow, to reform the posse, always one short, always one missing. They never asked to get out of a watch, though, knowing how sacred that is to the sailing rhythm. I like to think it gave them a short time to be alone with their thoughts, ready to rejoin the posse with extra fervor when the agonizing separation ended.

June 28, 2018

When people ask, "What was the trip like?" I'm always at a loss to say anything but "great." So I'll try to flush out that "great" with a few stories.

The Dippers

On the first night in Isle Royale, we ate dinner at the Windigo dock. Leif was the helper, and he put together a skillet cornbread that was pretty much perfect. We agreed that a lot of luck went into that, since we never use recipes. A family of three in a small sailboat next to us was our social scene for the evening, and Mark and I were settling into a nice conversation with them when Cedar, as became her habit, suddenly said, "Let's go for a trail run before dipping. I'm going to dip every day." There was a short silence as everyone took this in. (Remember, they are all cross countries runners except Reed). Then Leif, as became his habit, said "I'm in." The others were already heading for the boat to change.

They headed into the woods--oops, wrong way, headed out the other way--came back, stripped down to suits, and jumped in. And jumped in again. And again. Malin, Cedar, and Robin seemed able to stay in the longest--they absolutely lounged! Lamar hung in there but then usually came out first, shivering wildly, her thin legs white and her lips purple. (Water temps. in the bays ranged from 38 to 48 degrees). Reed and Leif contented themselves with numerous dips, as they usually didn't last as long in the water and clearly had to make up for that somehow.

They did hold to their plan to swim every day, even on the days when a brisk east wind had us all in fleece and wool socks in the anchorage.

Any fear I had that the long day of motoring/sailing to Isle Royale would leave them restless and energetic was allayed with that swim. I could not imagine anyone doing anything but falling into bed after a day like that. But it only seemed to get them fired up again--by nightfall (9:30-10:00) they were starting games, interspersed with short, frequent stints of journaling, and a log of laughter and conversation. Mark and I sacked out at 10:00 and then made them go to bed around 11:00.